books, pictures, and relics of the french emperor.

some little time ago he purchased from morse hudson two

duplicate plaster casts of the famous head of napoleon by

the french sculptor, devine. one of these he placed in his

hall in the house at kennington road, and the other on the

mantelpiece of the surgery at lower brixton. well, when

dr. barnicot came down this morning he was astonished to

find that his house had been burgled during the night, but

that nothing had been taken save the plaster head from the

hall. it had been carried out and had been dashed savagely

against the garden wall, under which its splintered

fragments were discovered."

holmes rubbed his hands.

"this is certainly very novel," said he.

"i thought it would please you. but i have not got to the

end yet. dr. barnicot was due at his surgery at twelve

o'clock, and you can imagine his amazement when, on

arriving there, he found that the window had been opened in

the night, and that the broken pieces of his second bust

were strewn all over the room. it had been smashed to

atoms where it stood. in neither case were there any signs

which could give us a clue as to the criminal or lunatic

who had done the mischief. now, mr. holmes, you have got

the facts."

"they are singular, not to say grotesque," said holmes.

"may i ask whether the two busts smashed in dr. barnicot's

rooms were the exact duplicates of the one which was

destroyed in morse hudson's shop?"

"they were taken from the same mould."

"such a fact must tell against the theory that the man who

breaks them is influenced by any general hatred of

napoleon. considering how many hundreds of statues of the

great emperor must exist in london, it is too much to

suppose such a coincidence as that a promiscuous iconoclast

should chance to begin upon three specimens of the same bust."

"well, i thought as you do," said lestrade. "on the other

hand, this morse hudson is the purveyor of busts in that

part of london, and these three were the only ones which

had been in his shop for years. so, although, as you say,

there are many hundreds of statues in london, it is very

probable that these three were the only ones in that

district. therefore, a local fanatic would begin with

them. what do you think, dr. watson?"

"there are no limits to the possibilities of monomania,"

i answered. "there is the condition which the modern french

psychologists have called the 'idee fixe,' {1} which may be

trifling in character, and accompanied by complete sanity

in every other way. a man who had read deeply about

napoleon, or who had possibly received some hereditary

family injury through the great war, might conceivably form

such an 'idee fixe' and under its influence be capable of

any fantastic outrage."

"that won't do, my dear watson," said holmes, shaking his

head; "for no amount of 'idee fixe' would enable your

interesting monomaniac to find out where these busts were

situated."

"well, how do _you_ explain it?"

"i don't attempt to do so. i would only observe that

there is a certain method in the gentleman's eccentric

proceedings. for example, in dr. barnicot's hall, where a

sound might arouse the family, the bust was taken outside

before being broken, whereas in the surgery, where there

was less danger of an alarm, it was smashed where it stood.

the affair seems absurdly trifling, and yet i dare call

nothing trivial when i reflect that some of my most classic

cases have had the least promising commencement. you will

remember, watson, how the dreadful business of the

abernetty family was first brought to my notice by the

depth which the parsley had sunk into the butter upon a hot

day. i can't afford, therefore, to smile at your three

broken busts, lestrade, and i shall be very much obliged to

you if you will let me hear of any fresh developments of so

singular a chain of events."

the development for which my friend had asked came in a

quicker and an infinitely more tragic form than he could

have imagined. i was still dressing in my bedroom next

morning when there was a tap at the door and holmes

entered, a telegram in his hand. he read it aloud:--

"come instantly, 131, pitt street, kensington. -- lestrade."

"what is it, then?" i asked.

"don't know -- may be anything. but i suspect it is the

sequel of the story of the statues. in that case our

friend, the image-breaker, has begun operations in another

quarter of london. there's coffee on the table, watson,

and i have a cab at the door."

in half an hour we had reached pitt street, a quiet little

backwater just beside one of the briskest currents of

london life. no. 131 was one of a row, all flat-chested,

respectable, and most unromantic dwellings. as we drove up

we found the railings in front of the house lined by a

curious crowd. holmes whistled